safety net
by Kira
Summary: When it's a choice between save a trouble-making witness and your missing partner, well, that's a problem.


**Title:** safety net

**Rating:** PG-13 to R for violence, language, and gratuitous Marshall hurt ;)

**Genre: **Gen, with that Mary/Marshall subtext we all know and love

**Summary:** When it's a choice between save the witness and save the marshal, there shouldn't be a problem. When it's between a trouble-making witness and your missing partner, well, that's different.

**Disclaimer: **Do not own. Am not making money. This all makes me very sad.

**Author's Notes:** What started as a post-ep for 1x04 has grown much longer and complicated. Takes place, timeline-wise, between 1x04 and 1x05, if you take liberty with Mary's comments at the beginning of 1x05. Told in 5 parts. Feedback feeds the muse. Beta'ed by the spunky and supportive Maia.

Chapter One

By the time the two hours are up, the hospital staff is ready to throw a party – _anything_ - to get the snippy blond woman _off their backs_. Usually brave and stern in the face of difficult friends and family, the nurses almost resort to drawing straws when it comes to dealing with the fiesty blond waiting outside floor three recovery.

Chosen because of her years of experience in dealing with such trying visitors, Maureen takes a moment; _she will not harm_ is the mantra she repeats in her head. _God. _There's difficult and then there's _difficult_, and whoever this woman is, well, her patient's got the patience of Job.

Her rubber shoes hide her steps from most, but the blond woman's head turns as soon as she rounds the corner, ponytail flying around her head to hit her in the cheek.

"Listen, if someone doesn't let me see him in the next _five minutes_ -- "

"Oh, don't worry, hunny," the nurse drawls. "We aren't going to keep _you_ out any longer. By all means," and she holds out her arm in the universal sign for _follow me_.

"Yeah, right," the blond huffs, and pushes past the nurse.

"Some people," Maureen sighs, and returns to her station, thankful her shift ends soon. Because she doesn't want to be there when the woman _gets_ to her destination.

--

Her demeanor softens as soon as she lifts the latch on the door. Palm flat against the wood, Mary Shannon cracks the door, a shaft of light sweeping across the floor, up the walls, across his face --

"Oh, it's you," he groans with a small smile.

As soon as she sees him, _hears_ that sarcastic tone, she throws the door open and closes the distance between them quickly, arms crossed as she stands over him.

"You're such a baby," she says, eyes sparkling. Tilting her head to the side, she eyes the tube replacing the one she stuck in through his chest hours before, the IV stand, monitors; she knows how close she came to losing her partner, her only friend, but she already broke down in the hallway and he doesn't need to know that. "How'd you know all that stuff, anyway?"

"I like to read," he says.

"Right," Mary scoffs. She pulls out the plastic chair next to the bed and all but falls into it, exhausted. "Well, your reading saved your life."

He shakes his head, normally tamed brown hair falling over his eyes. "No. You saved my life. I just told you what to do."

"In Latin."

"I was speaking perfectly good English," he says, words spaced far by the effects of IV drugs.

Mary rolls her eyes. "_Your_ English. You've got to remember that most of us don't have a million word vocabulary."

"Maybe I'll get you a dictionary for your birthday or something."

"Don't think I haven't forgotten you didn't get me anything," Mary points out. Marshall's eyes widen just a little in surprise and he smiles.

"You told me not to," he exclaims. It comes out rough, trailed by a few coughs.

"Alright, alright, take it easy," she tells him. "How long are you going to be locked up in this place?"

Marshall all but ignores her and reaches for the yellow plastic cup of water on the side table. Seeing his intent, Mary intersects his hand and grabs it for him, leaning forward to help him out.

"Un-uh," he mumbles.

Hands off, she waits for his answer.

"A few days. Told you it was nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, sure looks that way."

They sit quiet for a few minutes, digesting the day's events to the hum and beeps of machines. It's a comfortable silence; for some reason, they've never had to _try_ at anything. From the first day they met, everything just _worked_ in a way they'd never worked for Mary before, and though she'd never say anything, she's thankful for moving, for being transferred after her _last_ partnership ended in a bang.

It's a half-hour later she notices Marshall's fallen asleep, breath sounding odd as air whistles through the tube sticking out of his chest. She listens to it for awhile, thanking God she still can, until the nurse comes in to kick her out.

Tired, she doesn't put up a fight. The nurse watches from the doorway as Mary stands to lean over Marshall and puts a light kiss on his forehead.

"Don't ever do this to me again," she orders. Then, softer, "I'll see you tomorrow."

--

"Rise and shine sleepyhead. Time to get back to work."

Okay, so she'd never _seen_ where he lived before, which, considering they'd been partners for three years, was a little weird, but he always listened when she told him to come to her place for...whatever. And let her drive, which was nice, considering he had a much better car than her and didn't drive like a maniac – which she knew and, well, it got her places faster and without much bullshit.

Her moping about the possibility of Marshall leaving must have been on the ball, because the office without him around became...tense. Not that the chief wasn't an agreeable guy, but he was partly a politician and represented all the rules that got on her nerves. He just didn't _get_ her, and without that buffer – without Marshall there to protect the world from her, or vis versa – she found herself spending more time in the field.

And getting her car fixed. _Finally_.

So after a three day sentence in the hospital and a few more at home, Mary felt it was time enough for him to get back in the saddle. And she was a bit lonely without someone to read the paper with in the morning. Yeah, she was a bit selfish – deal with it.

Throwing open the curtains in the tasteful yet utilitarian bedroom – and hey, they were pretty nice curtains – Mary has a second of regret for busting in like this, but then she turns around and sees her normally put together and suited partner and, well, bursts out laughing.

"What the...?" Marshall groans, confused, eyes blinking against the onslaught of bright New Mexico sunlight. Mary can tell the second he sees her, because his eyes narrow and he throws the covers over his head. "Go away, Mary."

She gives him a second, face still pulled into a wide smile over brown hair stuck up all over the place and the newest addition to his pajama collection. All the nights spent on assignment, and she still found the sight of the six-foot-something ten year old that replaced her partner come bedtime amusing.

"C'mon," she finally announces, pulling back the covers, "time to get out of bed."

"What?" Marshall asks, then, "should you really be doing that? I could be undressed under here, you know."

"Yeah, right," snorts Mary. "And be without your airplane pajamas?"

He concedes. "Good point."

A ten year old. Check.

It's like having to get her slob housemates up to do something – _anything_ – when they'd rather drink martini's and read the paper...with _her_ money. Well, mostly her money; her mom was contributing a little bit now that she had that job, a little bit being a few dollars or buying her first drink herself for once. She'd have to deal with them later, as it seemed their bad habits were rubbing off on her usually early-riser partner.

Best friend. Or...whatever. There's a reason she hasn't brought up their conversation from _before_, and she suspects he'll follow her lead. She's come to depend on that, on his smooth compromises and support, but maybe that's why it'd never work; she's all about conflict, he's about, well, _dancing_. Really, who takes mambo classes, anyway? And where'd he find the time? As it is, Mary doesn't have much to do anything but crash at the end of the day only to wake up to a trashed house.

"Where do you even find stuff like that?" she muses aloud. "You're the only, well, _person_, over ten I've seen wear cartoon pajamas."

"Did you know pajamas are from -- "

Mary smacks him with a pillow. "Dear God, do you ever stop?"

Marshall smirks. That would be a no.

--

"Hey, listen to that," Marshall comments, seated as comfortably as possible in the compact two-door Mary insists on driving. "Purrs like a baby."

"Contrary to what you might believe, I _can_ get things done without you around." Mary takes a right turn at breakneck speed, tires squealing through the turn. With his right arm still stuck up in a sling, there's nothing to hold on to as Mary tosses them around the car as she does her impersonation of driving, and he grimaces when his shoulder knocks the car door.

"Good," he breathes as they straighten out. "Cause I'm right handed." And he shifts his right arm a bit.

"God, you're such a baby," she mutters. "What, is there something wrong with your hand?"

"I'm just saying."

"Yeah, well, shut your hole. You're alive, aren't you?"

Well, _that_ brought a halt to their conversation. Mary continues terrorizing the streets of downtown Albuquerque in silence, unusual since her engine started acting up a few weeks ago. It's a bit unnerving, and at a stop light, she turns her attention to her list on the dash. Item one, get Marshall back to work, gets crossed out, and item two, check in on Knightlinger's alibi, gets underlined.

"Alibi?" tries Marshall. "You're taking me on a check-up? You do know I've got a few dozen witnesses of my own that probably need looking after since I've been gone for a week." And winces because that probably wasn't the right thing to say; she's just trying to be nice, ease him back into things, but it isn't like this was the first time he'd gotten hurt on the job.

Mary takes another wild turn, still in the direction of the address written under item two. Leave it to her to be unwaveringly stubborn. "Stan's been baby sitting."

"Wow. Stan's the man."

"Apparently. Said it felt good to be doing the real work again, or something like that. Haven't seen him that happy since..."

"Ahh. Gotcha."

Mary gives a one shouldered shrug. A happy Stan is a good Stan, but he's too close to the details again, which always makes her a bit uncomfortable. Buracrates get too distracted by laws and rules to see the common sense staring them right in the face; they make everything exceedingly difficult by being idiots.

"Don't worry. I'll take all that small picture work back and you can go back to keeping him out of the loop."

She just smiles quickly at him before turning her attention back to a rushed parking job; obviously, having just her and Stan in the office wasn't working out well, at least on her end.

It isn't speed that has Mary parking a bit outside the lines at Ralph's, but impatience. Checking up on awol witnesses has never been her favorite task; in fact, the very idea that some people would mess up their golden opportunity after all the sacrifices and work that went into getting their criminal asses out of a bad, probably fatal, situation, just, well, pissed her off and had her wishing she could use her gun more. Running around town, hell, the _state_ when she could be helping out someone more deserving of the program, always had her a bit impatient and defiantly crabby.

Thank God she had her whipping boy along. This wouldn't be bearable otherwise.

"Tim Knightinger, hasn't shown up to work in three days, wasn't at his apartment this morning. I swear to God, when I find this guy, I'm going to shoot out his knees," she says, stepping up the curb to the grocery store's entrance.

"At least he won't be able to run," Marshall quips from her side. "But think of how hard it'd be to find him a new job."

"I wouldn't do it _here_."

"Naturally," he says dryly.

The change in temperature is refreshing. This early in the day, the store's customers are moms with screaming kids off for the summer. A cart crosses their path, a child buckled into the seat screaming at his mother. She ignores him as she begins searching for produce.

Mary makes a face and rolls her eyes.

"They're not all like that," Marshall comments as, now that their path is clear, they make their way to the service desk. Mary leans against the counter.

"They're all dirty and loud. Why people get all blubbery around them is beyond me." She leans over the counter and stares down the lone woman at the other end. "Hey, a little help over here?"

"Just a moment, ma'am," the woman calls back.

Mary turns to Marshall. "Did she just ma'am me?" Before he can answer, she's off.

"Here we go," he breathes, following at a safe distance.

"Listen, lady, I don't have a whole lot of time to stand here waiting for you to get off your ass and help, okay? I just have a few questions and then you can get back to," she waves a hand, "whatever it was that you were doing."

She gets the response she's aiming for; the woman pauses mid-motion and turns, eyes wide in shock. Or maybe anger, because she saunters up to the edge of the counter and pops a bubble with her chewing gum.

"Don't have a heart attack," the service clerk mutters. "No need for that kind of language. Now, what can I help you with?" Her voice is so saturated with fake sugar, Marshall's afraid _for_ her and Mary hasn't even opened her mouth.

"Oh, well, I was wondering, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if you could, like, tell me the last time you saw Tim Knightinger," she said, voice starting sweet and ending hard. Leaning across the counter, she's close enough to grab the clerk if need be, and knowing Mary, her cue for assult is a lot tamer than most people's.

"Are you family?"

"Yes," Mary sing-songs.

"Really? Let me see if he's working." And turns away, presumably to check the schedule.

Back to the counter, Mary rests her elbows on the lower edge and shakes her head. "I don't know what's going on. Tim's a fairly level-headed guy. Yeah, a bit paranoid, but considering what he went through." She trails off, remembering the circumstances of Tim's entry into the Program. He'd beaten the odds and lived through two planned hits orchestrated by the very people he was testifying against. If he could be gotten to in a secure courthouse, well, Mary could understand that.

"Still, I told him everything would be okay, to give it time. He's been in three weeks and I'm already getting complaints," she finally finishes.

"A grocery store, though? Couldn't find him something less mundane?" quips Marshall. Mary glares, but only for a second.

"The guy's paranoid. I had to put him someplace where no one would look."

"Well, I'd say you've done a good job of that. I don't even think his co-workers can find him." He tips his head over Mary's shoulder; she turns, where the clerk's returned and isn't looking too sucessful. And is a bit scared by that.

Mary has that effect on people.

"Umm, Tim's supposed to be here, but the shift manager's having a problem finding him." As she speaks, a page goes through the overhead system for their missing witness.

"You think we could speak to your manager? I just _really_ need to find Tim. He left this crazy message on my machine, and, well, you know how brothers can be," Mary sooths. The clerk nods, wondering what's happened to the angry woman who arrived just minutes ago, and goes back to her phone.

"Maybe he's just playing hookie," Marshall suggests.

Mary shakes her head, her posture straightening; she's all business, now. "His boss called and said he hasn't shown up for three days, and now he's here but hiding. Either something happened here to spook him, or something at home. And since his place is disgusting and caked with dirt," -- she makes a face -- "he hasn't been there in a few days."

"Just because a guy's place is messy doesn't mean he's abandoned ship."

"Really? Cause other than you, who's some sort of genetic mutation, I've found that _most_ guys have issues when it comes to keeping a place clean."

"I'm the mutation? Because I'm sure I've seen your place a bit messy from time to time."

"Hey," she points a finger at him, "that's totally not my fault. My family -- "

"Just can't take care of themselves, yadda, yadda."

"Sometimes, I could just murder you," Mary growls.

"Yah," Marshall says, "But then who would put up with you?"

She's about to sock him on the arm, but the closest one's hung in a sling and she remembers how fragile he really is despite all the bravado and gun on his hip. Her eyes itch and she turns her head to the side to avoid any show of weakness. He's _fine_, standing there with a smirk on his face and hand in his pocket.

Then why can't she just _let it go_?

Because in the three years they've been partners, she's never seen him hurt. And if he'd died, if he'd gotten shot a few inches to the right instead, the last day they'd spent together would have been full of anger and arguments, and damn if she wanted things to end that way.

Turning back, she opens her mouth to say something – they _have_ to talk about it – but a middle-aged man in a company t-shirt and a radio on his hip comes walking up behind Marshall with that frantic look in his eyes she's come to know as panic.

"Are you Mary Sheppard?" he asks, voice rushed with quick breathing. Mary answers in a nod, and the man holds out a hand for a quick shake. "Russ Appley, assistant manager. We found Tim hiding in a supply closet; he comes back after a few days and pulls this." He walks, she follows, with Marshall easily keeping pace.

"He's in a closet?" Mary says, a bit confused. Behind Russ' back, she shares a look with Marshall, who shrugs.

Russ leads them through the aisles to the grey double doors leading to the stockroom. "Apparently, he clocked in this morning, worked for a few hours, then disappeared."

"Did something happen that could have caused this?" Marshall speaks up. Mary glances at him, wondering what the hell he's asking; the guy's _in a closet_ and he's asking about causation?

"He got a phone call before his break," Russ tries, pushing through the doors into the dim, canaverous stock room.

"Do you know who it was?" inquires Mary.

Russ shakes his head, coming to a stop just outside a knicked and peeling blue door off to the right, JANITOR stenciled in grey spray paint at eye level. "He's a good guy. Hard worker, doesn't complain much. I don't know what happened to him before, but I'm willing to work with him; good people are hard to find these days."

Sure, especially if your employee used to be a work-a-holic executive. There aren't many six-figure workers itching to get back to the grindstone at minimum wage. Mary nods, anyway, and rapps her knuckles on the door.

"Tim? Tim, are you in there? It's Mary."

"Mary?" The voice is timid, frightened, and muffled by the metal door. Something scuffs around inside, then the door creeks open, spilling yellow light onto the stained concrete floor. Tim Knightinger steps out, dressed in pristine khaki slacks, a white button up, and the green apron of a stocker. "Hi," he says with a weak little wave.

"Tim, why were you hiding in the closet?" asks Mary, hands settling on her hips.

He glances worriedly at Russ, who's watching the exchange with some sort of hyper awareness that comes with being in charge at a place of little importance – everything's a bit more exciting than the day to day. Marshall speaks to him, leaving Mary to talk candidly with her nervous, twitchy witness.

"I know you said I'm safe here, but I can't help it; those guys," -- his voice lowers to a whisper, and he leans towards Mary -- "those guys were _serious_. You didn't see them, so you don't know, but -- "

"It's my job to protect you," she interrupts, suddenly angry. He's been in town only a few weeks and already doubting her abilities. Part of her wants to go off on him, ask him if he'd feel safer with Marshall as his marshal because of some latent issues with women or maybe he just likes to tell people how to do their jobs – but she knows better. It isn't an easy transition, and while she's faced violence and men with guns, become almost comfortable or detached when faced with them, Tim's the sort of person who probably found bloody action movies disturbing.

She settles with stern reinforcement, instead. "It's something I take _very_ seriously. But you have got to trust me, or else I'm not going to be able to help you make this easier, okay?"

Tim nods, but doesn't look convinced.

"They won't find you," she says, softer. "I won't let them."

"Promise?"

She nods. "Got my word."


End file.
